The Colors of StaCa
by CarrionEater
Summary: A series of one-shot drabbles centered around Starscream and Carrion. Ratings and themes vary.
1. White

**White is the Color of Advice**

White is the color of the lights in the med bay, when they're actually turned on properly. Carrion knows this because he's spent enough time staring up at them, plating folded back, while Knock Out tries to repair some minor damage to his chassis.

"Now, I know that a great many of the more artistic designers died in the war, leaving the sad engineers that put your sorry self together," the older medic purrs as he looks up from his work, distracting Carrion from the clean white of the ceiling, "And I know that the only 'Cons who would bond long enough to produce offspring aren't the brightest – again, leaving your procreators. So I know that, through no fault of your own, you're both stupid and ugly."

The young Seeker heaves a long suffering sigh that's only half sincere, unwilling to give in to Knock Out's bait when the other is wrist deep in his innards. "Feeling witty today, are we?"

"Don't try to be smart; you're far out of your league," the other chides, raising a sharp claw to flick Carrion's face plate. The gesture is much sharper and stings a bit more than if Starscream were doing it, and the difference is interesting. "Honestly, do you think this is doing any good for you?" He gestures with his raised hand at the rest of Carrion's body, sweeping over the dents and scratches and peeled away paint; to the exposed wires and broken pumps and smeared energon. "Do you really think destroying yourself doing something you're absolutely _terrible_ at is going to get you anywhere? Do you think it impresses anyone?"

Rolling his optics, he returns his stare to the ceiling. "I do my job just fine, thanks."

"When you chose to do what you were built for," the ostentatious automobile states smoothly. "Instead of flying around doing what you like to _pretend_ to have been built for. No one is fooled; not even your dear Air Commander."

Generally speaking, Carrion is very accomplished at the verbal fencing they engage in whenever he's forced to come down to Knock Out's corner of the ship. Those words, however, hit in just the right way to slap him into silence, so he can only glare at the other medic.

Returning to his work, grinning as unsubtly as ever at what he surely thinks is victory, Knock Out adds one last murmur before joining his patient in silence. "Just something to think about, you know," he says. "I do so get tired of seeing you on my operating table."


	2. Red

**Red is the Color of Wanting**

Normally they fly when the sun is fully up, the light giving them a better view of the terrain without the extra effort of switching into night vision. But sometimes the Air Commander insists on drilling routines at night, or early enough in the morning that is may as well still _be_ night.

Because, Starscream insists, there may well come a day when they are called into battle under less than favorable circumstances. He brooks no argument and accepts no excuse for Carrion's early ineptitude when it comes to flying in the dark. He simply pushes him to try harder, to go faster; get back in the air and try again, foolish scrapling.

This is all right with Carrion, who expects nothing less from the brilliant mech that has so enamored him. He appreciates the strain, even as he complains; he welcomes these arduous early mornings because it's always just them, and he _is_ learning. He's never had anyone spend enough time with him for his processor to really sync with a lesson that wasn't medical.

But when the sun starts to rise, and the sky bleeds through in shades of red and gold, he's not thinking about the lesson anymore. He's watching his Commander, soaring in alt-mode or standing in his regular form; red light making his sharp features all the sharper, making him look somehow more dangerous and strong as he glares at Carrion.

Keep moving, he'll snarl if he catches the young jet staring, and Carrion will. He'll do anything Starscream asks, despite protesting, because when he sees the older mech awash in the red light of early morning, his spark clenches with something he can't define, and all he wants is for the Air Commander to see him, too.


	3. Orange

**Orange is the Color of Pursuit **

There was nothing natural about the color orange. Maybe once such things had grown on the home planet, but Carrion had no memory of Cybertron at all, much less the specifics of its flora. No, his earliest memories were the black of space and the cold steel of the station where he'd been imprinted and begun his education as a medic, then later as a soldier.

Earth is a planet of many colors and seasons, but Carrion rather enjoys the one humans call 'autumn'; when the plants begin to die and the greens and golds turn to orange and brown. To him, orange is a special color, the color of change.

He remembers flying with his Commander, newly bonded and out together alone for the first time. It should have been as it always had, the older jet leading, barking orders, laying out a regime of maneuvers for Carrion to practice, but somehow it became a chase, a... a sort of show, for his benefit. Starscream has always be a beautiful flier, always in perfect control of himself, but that particular day he'd been in better form than usual.

The leaves of the trees below them hadn't been the standard field of green that day, no; they were a tapestry of livid reds and brilliant golds, fading greens and, most specially of all, burning oranges.

The sight of so much orange was foreign and beautiful, and Starscream was all steel-blue and grey above it. Somehow he'd _known_ Carrion was watching, had seen it or heard his halt or felt it through their bond, and for a moment they'd both been hovering, hanging still in the air, and then the Air Commander had burst into action. So aggressive had the motion been – the impulse felt through their bond heated and violent in a way that was tantalizingly fearsome – that Carrion had turned tail and fled.

For what good it had done. He might well have remained still. Starscream could read him like a book, chasing at his heels, hedging him in, cutting him off; he met Carrion at every twist, finally pining him on the ground in the midst of those trees; great tall strong trees that rose around them, some dwarfing even them.

Over the duration of the chase – and Starscream had allowed it to go on for nearly a cycle – their com-link had remained silent. Now Starscream spoke, his voice low and dangerous; "Nowhere to flee, sparklet. Will you stand your ground?"

And Carrion had dug his talons into the turf, feeling the soil and shed needles of the enormous evergreens rearing over them, and he'd shivered in place as Starscream had prowled toward him, looking for any opening, anyway to escape.

When the larger jet lunged, Carrion ducked under an arm, laughing wildly as he lept into the air again only to find himself caught and hauled back down to the ground.

"Wrong choice," the Air Commander growled, dragging the young jet in close. "I thought you'd figured out not to run from me by now."


	4. Yellow

**Yellow is the Color of Attraction**

The sun of this system is yellow and warm, heating their armor as they twist and circle in this well-practiced dance of mock combat. This is training at its worst, Carrion often thinks, because the forms they rehearse rely entirely on one's opponent being in precisely the matching position for an attack to work.

But centuries have taught him nothing but patience when it comes to Starscream and his practices; he swoops and dodges and spins as the dance requires, picking up the pace at his Commander's cue so they're flying by one another at dangerous speeds.

Maybe it's the hours of training they've put in, or maybe it's just the sun and heat, but he tightens a turn just slightly too far so his wing grazes Starscream's claws, filling the air with a low screech of metal scraping metal.

It could be that it's the heat that makes them behave this way, but suddenly the pattern is gone; Starscream dives at him and he barely manages to spiral out of the way, turning an unsteady barrel roll that throws him downward. He's so distracted trying to keep from spinning out and crashing back to earth that he doesn't even notice the larger jet turning a tight inside loop and doubling back on him.

His wing stings from the marks left by his own slip up, Starscream's claws having raked a series of jagged lines into the sensitive metal. His engine snarls in his chest as he turns midair, just quick enough to see the Air Commander launching at him; he throws himself up, accelerating just in time to miss being grabbed; _this_ is more like battle, the same uncertainty and feverish need to think in motion. _This_ is training, he thinks as he turns hard into a pitchback; he can _feel_ Starscream's confusion at the maneuver, his irritation and the underlying pleasure of the chase.

It goes on for some time, breems passing unremarked as the dances reaches a full fervor, their labors no longer perfunctory or scripted. Neither knows what the other is like to do, and their excitement stirs something, each in the other, that keeps them running when lesser mech would have called for halt.

Again and again they circle and dive together, erratic and unpredictable, missing striking one another by bare inches. Then, as if scripted, they met in mid air, both reversing thrust just enough not to truly crash, and their claws locked as inertia threw them into a rapid revolution and gravity began dragging them down.

Nothing had ever been quite so exhilarating as that barely controlled fall, and they'd no sooner hit the ground than Starscream shoved Carrion back, using the remnants of the energy that had borne them down already, and knocked him to a sprawl on the hard-packed desert ground. There was no time to roll away or get his feet back under him; his wings hit the ground with a painful slam and the younger jet was immediately pinned, Starscream kneeling to straddle him with one hand wrapped around his throat.

"Now you're dead," he sneered, and Carrion could feel the larger seeker's engine through the faint vibrations in his hand, pressing to his neck. There was a moment of stillness, not even the wind seeming to blow.

"Well," Carrion finally breathed, allowing himself the faintest smile as his hands relaxed against the dirt. "I suppose it's a good thing you like me so much, huh?"


End file.
